The glass doors of Wolfe Holdings didn't open for people. They recognized power. And this morning—they opened before Ethan even touched them.
A soft hush slid through the lobby the moment he stepped in, like the building itself had taken a breath and decided to hold it.
Three days ago, this place had been loud. Alive. Political.
Today?
It felt… watched. Ethan didn't slow down. Didn't acknowledge the shift. Didn't acknowledge the way conversations snapped shut the second his shoes hit the marble.
He walked like he had somewhere to be. Like this—all of this—was already his.
The receptionist, a woman who used to greet him with rehearsed charm and unnecessary enthusiasm, stiffened behind her desk.
"G—Good morning, Mr. Wolfe."
Ethan didn't stop. Didn't look at her. But just as he passed, he said, calm and effortless—"Relax. I'm not here for you."
A beat. Then, almost as an afterthought—"Unless you've been stealing."
